


Seven Silent Women of Westeros

by Sookiestark



Series: Silent Sisters of the Seven Kingdoms and Wordy Wild Women of Westeros [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Domestic Violence, F/M, Fluff and Angst, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2020-03-20
Packaged: 2020-09-01 01:17:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20249770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sookiestark/pseuds/Sookiestark
Summary: Brief glimpses of female characters in ASOIAF who I wish we knew more about.





	1. Quiet as the Dead- Lyanna Stark

**Author's Note:**

> So these short stories came about over a conversation about women in the Middle Ages and some of the weird things women were taught about women who spoke and women who didn't speak. So the quotes of what various people say are actual adages from the Middle Ages about women. SO... like, a woman who laughs is half taken. 
> 
> It is interesting to me who speaks and who we never hear from...
> 
> Obviously, the first chapter is Lyanna because we never hear anything from her except Promise me ... So this chapter is spoken as her ghost

We have all heard the saying, there was never a conflict without a woman. I think about Lady Darke and the rebellion of Duskendale. I think of what the King did to her and how she was blamed for all of it. An entire legacy, an entire House, all wiped away because of her counsel, because of the words she whispered to her husband. 

Or Tyanna of the Tower? She whispered terrible, evil lies in the King’s ears and every man, woman, and child with the name Harroway was wiped from the Seven Kingdoms in a fortnight. All because of a woman and her treacherous words. 

Even Queen Alicent and Princess Rhaenyra were made to shoulder the dragon’s share of the Civil War. Because of their sex, because of the treacherous nature of woman. I never quite understood how women could be blamed for so much. After all, we have such little power in the world. We are barely let out of our houses, never mind sent to schools to learn to read and write. 

The Seven Kingdoms have kept no record of any of my words. You can scour through the books and see if you can find them, but there are none recorded. They are written on my families’ memories and when they pass from the world, my words will disappear like mist in the sun. No one thought I would be important enough to record anything I said. Now, it is too late.

What is known is that I was the only daughter of a great lord, that I wanted to be a warrior, that I wanted to use a sword. There are many girls like me in Westeros but they do not speak of us much. It is uncommon as a person with different colored eyes or a cat with six toes, but it happens often enough. My father would not allow me a blade but he gave a bow and a horse. After all, what else is there to do in the north?

I am silent like most women in history, unknowable except by speculation and conjecture. Use your imagination to fill the gaps. I am the wind blowing through the cracks of the history books. Try to find my purpose. Try to find my motivation.

I wonder what will be left of me. I wonder of those that come after me what will they think of me? How will they see me?

I was wild. I was willful. In some stories, I was wanton. To some, I was a disobedient and selfish child. Others have suggested I was vapid and vain, uncaring that my world broke out in bloodshed. I was grasping like Lady Darklyn and used my sexuality, as girls are known to do, to take Rhaegar from Princess Elia, his faithful wife. 

There are some stories that say I was a Northern witch, practiced in dark arts and blood magic, and Prince Rhaegar was spell-bound to act so entirely out of his character. As the Seven Kingdoms burned, we dallied with me in a tower and let his duties to the realm and his family fall in the flames. What terrible magic did I weave to distract such a fine and noble prince? 

Or was Prince Rhaegar a rapist? Maybe, Prince Rhaegar seduced me with sweet words and his beautiful music like young princes are sometimes known to do. But once he captured me and bedded me, I was his prisoner. He kept me in a tower in the wilderness, a world away from my family, unable to write letters, unable to leave his bed. I was silenced in the tower, no words, no messages, no voice. I was just another ruined women, hurt by a man in power.

There are some who say Rhaegar told me of his visions and I was enthralled by the idea of giving birth to the prince who was promised. Some believe, at fifteen, I could see the weight of the task before me, to be chosen to be the mother of the Prince who was Promised and I took on the role like a Septa takes her beads and cowl, as my spiritual purpose, for the greater good. 

Was I a victim or a willing participant? A wanton whore? A witch? A ruined and raped girl?

My body grows still and my final breath passes through my lips. My voice is silent. All is silence. 

Prince Rhaegar died with my name on his lips. At least, that is what they told me. The purple-eyed knight Dayne told me and left me in the locked room to cry or rejoice. Whatever I did, it was my own secret to keep. 

All that is known is that I cried when Rhaegar played a song at Harrenhal. It is widely said a woman who laughs is half taken but what do tears mean? Perhaps, I just felt the song spoke for me, echoed the sad words I was not allowed to speak. 

No one will ever know. There is so much about me that no one will ever know. I have grown as quiet as the dead. 

I could tell you his kiss was worth it. I could tell you that the memories of the few cool nights we shared together in the Red Mountains were enough to fill all the days I had left. I could but that does not sound like something I would say. 

I would have liked to hold my boy, to kiss him, to teach him to walk on his tiptoes the way babies do, clutched onto my fingers, unsteady. An uncertain dark-haired baby looking to me, his mother, certain I would never fail him. I deserved that just as I deserved to hear him call my name, to feel his embrace, to watch him grow. What had I done to deserve any less?

I could tell you many things but the dead can’t speak.

Now, I am as quiet as the dead.


	2. Quiet as a Lamb- Lollys Stokeworth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lollys and Bronn- around 300 AC Book verse not show verse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have wanted to write something about Bronn and Lollys for a very very long time. Bronn in the book verse is a very dangerous character but I have read and re-read and I think Lollys is safe as she can be. I like to think of her happy and safe with her and Bronn as Lady and Lord Stokeworth.

When I was a girl, my septa used to say a good woman is worth her weight in gold. 

I have tried to be a good woman. When I was still a girl, I learned very slowly. I had trouble with my memory and could not remember my prayers. Mother wished my Septa to hit my knuckles with a stick until I would learn my manners, my stitches, my prayers. But I could not learn and my Septa would not beat me. My Septa was kind and gentle like the Mother. She told me that I could be good too. I must be quiet and faithful and true like the Mother, quiet like the lamb on our sigil. She said that one day the Father would send me a husband who would see my virtue. 

Sometimes in the dark, as I lay in my bed, I reach out to my husband. He is not particularly soft or given to affection. He is not given to chivalry or tales of romance. He does not know the Seven or the prayers of the faithful. Lord Bronn of the Blackwater, knighted during the War, a companion to the Lannisters, tells me that his life has not been one suited to stories or septs. He has had to be a man given to action to rise so quickly in his life.

Once, he was a sellsword. Falyse laughed on my wedding day saying he was a little more of a brute and Mother was selling me to the man because I was ruined and good for nothing. She teased me saying I was like a fat stupid cow at market for slaughter and Bronn was the butcher.

I spent my life with Falyse calling me names. But she liked calling me a fat stupid cow best of all the hurtful things she called me. She said I was a cow, always lowing, always wide-eyed and good for nothing, except birthing other stupid fat cows.

Falyse was thin and smart. She would laugh and dance and could sew and knew all the prayers. She was perfect and Mother loved her best. When Falyse married Ser Byrch, Mother opened her purse and the feast they had for her wedding was almost as rich as the ones the Queen has. I got a simple dinner after the septon heard our wedding vows.

But it doesn’t bother her too much. Mother is gone now, dead with a chill and a broken hip. Ser Byrch is dead and Falyse has disappeared, disappeared with her sharp and hurtful tongue. It does not worry me now they are gone. I don’t know where Falyse went but Bronn says she will not come back. I have Bronn to keep me safe. He calls himself Lord Stokeworth and he calls me Lady Stokeworth and that is a fine thing indeed. 

My husband is dark and scarred but he has fine white teeth and eyes as blue as the morning. I have seen him fight and he is ruthless and his steel is sharp. I watched him fight Ser Byrch in the yard, hiding behind a post and I saw the strength and skill of my husband. I knew he fought for Stokeworth and his position but he also fought for me. A wild tremor of excitement filled me as blood spread on the ground. I was no longer something to be mocked but something precious to be fought over like a lady in a legend. 

Bronn does not know the story of the knights and their lady loves. His manners are rough like his hands. He is not good with sweet words but has not told me I was ruined, stupid or fat. He has never made me feel like I am good for nothing. Instead, he calls me his sweet lamb. 

When he picks Tyrion up, he does not call him bastard or make him feel wrong. Bronn named him Tyrion after his lord who gave him honor, a lord who gave him a chance. I heard the Queen was angry when he named him that but I was proud. Proud that he loved him enough to name him after Lord Tyrion. 

The day I was taken, I screamed and tried to fight. I knew what would happen and I fought. I fought and screamed until one of the men said for me to be quiet or he would slice my nose off. I do not remember what happened after that but I made no noise. If nothing changes and no one listens, why bother? 

Sometimes at night, my husband builds a fire with his own hands in the hearth and we will sit together on a couch. We watch the flames. Sometimes, we roast chestnuts in a pan and eat them while they steam, burning our tongues. 

Bronn is dangerous and he is rough. But to me, he always speaks softly. He says I have the softest hands he has ever felt and calls me Lollys the Lamb. In our bed, Tyrion will sleep beside me and Bronn will touch my stomach gently. Our child grows inside me. My husband is not gentle but when he touches Tyrion or me, you would think we were Myrish glass. 

Sometimes, I teach him to read. He struggles over the letters but I am patient. After all, it took me a long time to read. A Lord must know his letters. No one has ever thought I could teach anyone anything. No one ever listened to me or even looked at me. But he does. Perhaps, my old Septa was right and the Father sent him to me because I was good and I was quiet.

I do not tell Bronn that he is a gift to me. He would not understand and I do not need to waste words. When I reach for him in the night, it tells him what words cannot say. We can be quiet as lambs and still know.


	3. Unheard- Megette

A donkey, a woman, and a walnut tree 

the more they are beaten the better they'll be... 

Such were the songs that were sung in the tavern across the street from my husband’s forge. It was a common song. After all, women were weak, petty, and lustful creatures. A husband’s correction was all that kept us in check. Even the Septon in Fairmarket said so in his sermons. 

I remember the old man’s sermon in his reedy, breathless voice speaking of Rhaenys’ law. A husband was allowed under the law to beat his wife seven times, one for each of the Seven. But my husband believed in the Old Gods and he beat me so much more than seven times. Once, I dared to tell him that he could not beat me so that I would go to Lord Smallwood and tell his lord that my husband broke the Queen’s law.

My husband, Waylan, was a big man and his face turned as red as the forge he worked. That night he beat me until I could not stand for three days without the room spinning. He spit on me when he was done. I remember him speaking, “What does a dead Queen’s law mean in the privacy of my own house? I am the man. I am your husband. In my house, I am your Lord and Master. Do not forget that, Meg.”

I did not forget it. I was not a stupid girl. 

I was fourteen when my father brought me to my husband. My father was a farmer who had five daughters and five sons. The girls were born first and he hated us because of it. He hated that we would need dowries and dresses, that we could not help lead a plow or hunt squirrel. We were useless to him, except to spend his silver, the silver he needed for ale.

Because of my beauty, Waylan took me with no dowry at fourteen. I was the prettiest girl in eight villages, a prize. My father had given me to the blacksmith with no dowry but a promise I was fertile as a spring field.

In the beginning, Waylan was hopeful full of dreams. He had been sure that he would win a landed knighthood from the Lothstons as the harsh winter was over and there were still many empty keeps, timber, and mud. But a knighthood was a knighthood and a keep made of mud, still a keep. At first, he was gentle and loving. He bed me every night but still, my courses came, angry and red. But when the babies did not come, my husband’s heart grew bitter and mean. When I would laugh and sing, it would set him on edge. But regardless of how he beat me, no child came. 

I was washing clothes in the river behind the forge when Prince Aegon’s horse lost its shoe. He happened upon me and his eyes were bright with laughter. I was singing the song about Queen Alysanne. Standing on the river’s edge, his boots in the mud, the Prince smiled, “Are you a water goddess of old or are you Jonquil reborn?”

I was enchanted when he laughed and gave me his hand. “My lady, would you like to come with me?” 

I spoke a word. Yes. But I do not know if Aegon heard it at all. My voice was barely a whisper. I don’t think the Prince was used to listening to anyone. He gave my husband seven gold dragons and we rode away on his horse like I was a princess and not a blacksmith's wife.

On my cheek was an angry red mark given to me by my husband. Later, Aegon kissed it and promised me that my husband would never dare lay a hand on me again. I believed him, my sweet, sweet Prince.

We had a small house in the Streets of Silver. He kept me well for four years. You could not know how sweet my lord was. The children came quickly, one right after another, girls all of them, Alysanne and Rosey with silver hair, and Willow and Lily, as dark as mine. It was as if love opened my womb and out flew all the children Waylan was guaranteed. 

Of course, Aegon’s father was a heartless man. He came to take me back to my husband, Waylan with his fists and his forge. He pulled the baby from my arms and sent the girls to the Motherhouse to be septas. Aegon cursed him, drew his sword, threatened him. He screamed, “You will not take her, you heartless monster.”

Before the knights took me from him, Aegon whispered in my ear, “Fear not, Meg. I will come to you. I will go to Fairmarket as soon as the week is out. We will be together and no one will keep me from you. Not my wife. Not your husband. Not the High Septon. Our love is stronger than all that, Meg.”

They bundled me in the wagon, without my fine clothes or my children. I wept for the girls. My heart ached for them. But I know Aegon will come... After all, how many sweet words had he whispered and how much happiness had we had together? 

Soon, Aegon will come. I watch the road for him. My husband, Waylan, watches the road as well. He watches to see if the Prince will come or that sturdy knight who threatened to thrash him. He whispers whore and slut under his breath. He will not look at me, refuses to touch me. But I feel his anger rising, bitter. It fills the space between us and chokes me. I can barely breathe anymore. 

I think about my girls. I hope the Septas are kind and hold them close. I hope they learn their letters and can write. I hope their voices are strong and loud. I hope they are safe. 

I fear I am not.


	4. Dumb- Gaei Targaryen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gael Targaryen- the Princess who loved a travelling musician-- but what if that was a cover-up to hide a more infamous character...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright- this story is going to be more than a thousand words but I love it so-- I have to. I apologize and I tried to cut it down but it wanted to be written.
> 
> Daemon Targaryen/Gael Targaryen- The Rogue Prince and the Winter Child.....

"A woman who is silent, beautiful, and simple is the best gift a man can have." 

Dumb as a rock. Dumb as a door. Dumb is the sound a thumb makes tapping on the old oak table. Dumb...Dumb...Dumb... Dumb means stupid. It also means mute. In some ways, I am both trapped in this castle. 

My sister, the Septa, would tell me that it is a blessing that I am here. I have never wanted for food or clothes or toys. I have the prettiest dresses and all the sweets I can eat. I have more than most could ever wish for. I am a Princess and a Targaryen. I am all that most could ever wish for and yet I wish I was a dancer in a brothel below in Flea Bottom. 

I know where he is and I am not stupid. 

My parents love me. Mother keeps me near her. I am a comfort to her in her old age. I am soothing to her as hot tea, lavender sachets in her pillow, and that cream from Lys that she rubs on her hands to make them not hurt so much. 

I am Winter’s child. My mother called me her winter child because I was born in the winter as well of the winter of her childbearing years. She thought she was done with the mess of birth and the heartache but then I came and I brought all the joy and mess back. I wonder if winter is dumb as well. After all, does it speak to us as Spring does? No, winter is a time of mute darkness, howling in wordless pain. We shut it out and try to huddle closer to the fire.

I might be dumb but I am not stupid. I know why mother keeps me close. I am a substitute for all her daughters who are dead and gone. There is a bit of me that reminds her of each of them. In my small size, I am Alyssa. When I read her prayers to her, I am Maegelle. When I was young, she would call me Daenerys. When I was afraid or had trouble reading, I was Daella. When I look at her, she compares me to Viserra and her beauty. There is only one daughter she never compares me to, Saera

We do not speak of my fallen sister who lives across the sea and does as she pleases. But perhaps, she is the one I am most alike to after all. 

Mother rarely let me from her sight or her care. I was ten before I could choose my own dress and six before I could hold a spoon. I was eleven when I learned to lace my boots and thirteen before Mother let me ride a horse. Perhaps, I was slow because it was hard to move faster than my tireless mother, even in her old age. She was restless, a constant moving force like a hurricane or a sand storm and I was the only thing that helped her sleep. Because of this, I had to sleep beside her and listen to her quietly snore in the darkness. 

I was raised in the nursery at Maegor’s Holdfast with my nephews; Viserys and Daemon. We had a sweet enough childhood. Viserys was the good one, always polite, always forthright. Daemon was the naughty one. Truth be told, Daemon was the one who favored Mother the most, and we all loved him for those qualities. He would constantly be thinking of new adventures, new ways to sneak away from our Septa. Viserys was lovely and kind but Daemon was bewitching.

I was the girl, the stupid one. I was dumb. Viserys would try to go slower for me, always waiting, always helping, always explaining. He would be the one who would stop and kneel to tie my boots or tidy my braid so that I might always appear a Princess. I hated Viserys for all his kindness and courtesy and knew I was wicked to do so. 

Daemon would laugh at his brother’s caution. Daemon would cut my laces with his dagger and knot them at the hole. His smile broad as he knelt at my feet, “Gael, now you need never fear anything as silly as a string.”

Once, when Viserys was tidying my hair after an adventure in Flea Bottom, Daemon pulled the whole thing free. “Gael, you look better with it down. You aren’t a girl anymore. You are a woman.”

I remember the way my silver hair looked in his fingers and how I never felt stupid or afraid as long as Daemon was beside me. My heartbeat roared in my ears and all I could see was his hands. I knew that I loved him at that moment, though I had probably loved him long before I had known.

When I was seventeen, I told Mother that I wanted to fly a dragon. I had dreamed of Dreamfyre my whole life. It was if I could hear her calling me, begging me to ride her. But Mother would not let me. She told me I was to stay with her on the ground for she could not bear if anything happened to me. She could no longer fly so neither could I. I wanted to fight with her, demand to have a dragon as my brothers or their children had but I didn’t because I could not find the words as fast as she did. 

It was Daemon who defied her. He was as stubborn and defiant as she ever had been. It was Daemon who asked while Mother was pouring over a book if he could take me outside to see the roses in bloom. She had nodded too busy to hear his words. I am certain she was barely listening. 

Arm in arm, he took me past the garden and into the yard. “Come with me. We will ride Caraxes. You are a Targaryen and you must see the world from the air.”

He helped me on his fine white horse and we rode to the Dragonpit. He strapped me into the dragon saddle on Caraxes and rode without. When a guard tried to protest my going, Daemon threw him some coins. “We must keep you safe. You are the rare jewel in House Targaryen. Grandmother’s favorite prize.” 

I cannot describe what it was like to take off. We swooped and soared through the clouds. I laughed the entire time. When we landed an old knight who had worked guarding the gates for as long as I had ever known said we looked like Mother and Father when they were young. I wrapped my arms around him tight. I was no longer a dumb girl. I was strong and smart. Beside Daemon, I was a true Targaryen, not just another soundless girl in a genealogy of Kings. 

Daily, he would find ways for us to be alone. For two moons, Daemon and I were inseparable. It was my seventeenth birthday when he asked me to marry him, kissing me softly in the sunset. How I loved the way he kissed me, it was all red fire and sweetness like sticky candy. He told me we would take Caraxes fly away together to Dragonstone if they refused us and go to Lys or Pentos. They couldn’t stop us. 

When we told our parents, Mother refused, stone-faced. She and Daemon’s father had arranged for him to marry Lady Royce in the Vale. I begged Mother to change her mind and as always she refused me. “You are too sweet, You do not understand what he wants from you. Daemon needs a woman with all her wits. Not someone as sweet as you.” 

Mother said sweet but she meant dumb, as dumb as the hollow sound of oak.

I hated her then, hated her fiercely and with all my heart. 

I went to Baelon and even father but neither would stand for me and my happiness. Father said, gently as was his way with me. “You are her only daughter left. Stay with her.”

I was not allowed from her sight until Daemon left for his wedding in the Vale. I remember crying but what are tears against a sand storm like Queen Alysanne.

Mother told me to stop, “You do not know what he wants. He will break your heart. You will see. Now that he has a wife, Daemon will forget you.”

How surprised she was when she saw red-scaled Caraxes land in the walls after only six moons.

“I have returned, Grandmother,” was all he said he said. Daemon hugged me as a nephew might. No manner of persuasion or threats could convince Daemon to return to the Vale and so his father thought to put him in government, but his smile said he had returned for me. 

There is always an opportunity in the Red Keep. One day, Daemon found me unsupervised. Mother had a cold and was resting. He took me to the Dragonpit and Dreamfyre was there. He threatened the guard with Dark Sister to look away. I touched her snout and Dreamfyre bent her head so I could ride as if she had waited for me all my life..

“Are you sure?” 

I said "Yes!"

As if Dreamfyre could read my mind, we flew. We flew to a field outside of the city walls, spending part of the day in a field of clover and daisies. It was there that Daemon told me we never had to be apart as he knelt by my boots. He asked me to marry him and I said, “Yes!”

We flew to Dragonstone. I think Daemon was worried that I would not be able to cross the sea on Dreamfyre, but I landed safely, proving that I was as Targaryen as the rest. We got married by the old Septon on Dragonstone. No one mentioned that Daemon was already married. On Dragonstone, we could be Targaryens and no one would question our Valyrian traditions. 

On our wedding night, I was too afraid to tell him that no one had ever told me what might happen. After all, Mother had never thought I would leave her and I thought he might find me stupid. But Daemon never teased me. Gently, he had shown me all the joys of a marital bed. In the silver light of dawn, he gathered me in his arms, “Gael, Don’t be afraid. They can’t separate us now. Not now. I will not let any of them.”

For almost a fortnight, we lived in a sweet blissful dream until Baelon, the Hand of the KIng and Daemon’s father, found us. Daemon told him we were married, showing him the parchment I had signed in my childlike letters. “I love her father. She will give me Targaryen sons. I will not be happy without her. We are husband and wife in the eyes of the Seven.”

Baelon’s voice echoed in the hall, “Except that you are married to a woman waiting for you at Runestone. You cannot have two wives at the same time. You are not Maegor.” 

“I will put that Bronze Bitch aside. Please, Father. Let me go to Oldtown and I will petition the High Septon to release me.”

“NO,” he said. Baelon said other things but the NO was the loudest thing and after that, I could not hear anything else. I remember that Baelon took me home to the Red Keep on the back of Vhagar. I could not ride Dreamfyre and now her cries from the Dragonpit echo heard across King’s Landing. Dreamfyre screams in frustration and sorrow. She screams because I cannot. I have no voice. I am dumb. Mute. A dumb girl to not know what might happen whispered in everyone’s eyes as I grow so round.

As the heat of the summer grows, my belly gets bigger. Aemma came yesterday to tell me that Daemon has taken up with a dancing girl named Mysaria. Mother cannot keep me her prisoner forever. When Daemon hears that I have given birth to a boy. He will come and tear the walls down, stone by stone, to claim me as his wife, to claim his son. 

I remember the words he spoke to me before they locked me out of sight. “My son will not be a bastard. I will come for you. We will be together. You shall see.” 

But as I lay beside my mother who still comes to sleep beside me I think of him and this whore in bed and wonder if he has forgotten me. Then in the dark, my son kicks against my stomach and I know Daemon will come. I am not stupid. I am not dumb.


	5. Cat Got Your Tongue- Cyrelle Tarbeck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cyrelle as a Silent Sister, tending the body of Tywin Lannister

The body is full of mysteries, mysterious corridors where blood travels through the heart, a large grey mass that holds ll the worlds that a man can dream up, a sack that stretches and grows another tiny human inside them. All these wonders of the human body, all these mysteries are open to me. Just as their dead bodies are splayed out before me. I open them and discover all the mysteries within. They cannot stop me. They are dead and I am here to prepare them for their journey. 

Sometimes, when I wash and prepare them, I think to touch their face and whisper in their unhearing ear, “Tell me your secrets. Tell me the treasures you laid close to your heart.”

But it has been so long since I spoke, I have forgotten. It is strange to see this man laid out before me. It is hard to believe that so a great and terrible man as Tywin Lannister is laid to rest. He looks small and weak. His old body, naked and on this slab, lies like a deer to be dressed so that I can prepare his body for its’ final rest. He is no longer is fearful. Now, he just reeks of shit and death. 

I wonder if I whispered in his ear would he tell me the secrets in his heart; his dreams, his fears. However, I dare not speak to him even now. This is the man who took away my words, the cat that took my tongue. 

I was shyer than my sister and brother and my mother would say, “What is it? Cyrelle, did a cat get your tongue?”

It is funny that I remember this so vividly. It was a phrase they said often enough to me and now there is the truth of it, this child’s game.

I do not mind my silence as much as I once did. My golden hair is all grey, white like the snow that covers the ground. But my eyes are as clear as they have always been and as emerald green. I wonder if the man I tend to now could open his eyes if he would recognize me for who I am. 

I have tended to the dead for forty years, rich or poor, young or old, from every region. When you die, the spirit leaves this body of clay. I am surprised he did not know the Motherhouse sent me to King’s Landing almost ten years ago. My skills were renowned in my order. Because of this, I was called to serve the rich and powerful. I took care of his grandson’s body, King Joffrey Baratheon, and his father, King Robert, as well.

It is hard work, messy work, bloody work. It does not work for the faint of heart but the spirit has fled, leaving behind mud, blood, sinew, organs. We are all the same under the skin, just fluid and flesh. No one is terrifying or grand on the slab while I prepare them. Not even this one. 

There are always wars. There is always diseases. There is always old age. There are always bodies. There will always be work for me. Prayers in the morning. Prayers at Noon. Prayers at nightfall. Prayers at midnight. Bodies in between. 

Now, I take care of the man who took my tongue. He is the cat. A lion is still a cat. That silly song plays in my head but I cannot remember the words, but the tune spins round as I remove the guts of this man who ruled the Seven Kingdoms but never wore a crown. He took my brothers, my family, even my nephew. He took my name and my house. Now, all that’s left is a stone heap, a stream, nothing. 

I remember the words a bit now. It has been a time since I have heard them. I remember when his men raped me and he threatened to cut my tongue from my mouth. It was Kevan’s intervention that stopped him. Tywin did not cut our tongues out but still, I have not spoken a word since that terrible day. 

His brother, Kevan, looked at me oddly, as if he almost recognized me. But the years have not been kind to me or him. Here in the darkness of my rooms, I wonder if he did at all. I can feel the hint of a smile touch my lips thinking how my Uncle Roger would tease him and say he was too round to be a Lannister. 

I wonder if Kevan remembers kissing me in my father’s hall and begging me to wait for him. Of course, he was too young and while he fought nine kings, I was wed to someone who could bring my family strength and gold. The mines of Castamere had long run dry. We needed gold and Tywin would never approve of a wedding between the two of us. Kevan, after all, was after him. Neither a Tarbeck nor a Reyne would ever be the Lady of Casterly Rock as long as Tywin drew breath. 

I wonder if he remembers the burn of the bright-hot love of youth. I wonder if he remembers that he was my first kiss. I wonder many things in my silence. 

Tywin Lannister’s body stinks. It is a foul and wretched smell that brings bile up your throat. Surely, it is a sign of poison. He may have been killed by his dwarf son but that was a mercy. If given another hour, he would have been screaming as his insides turned to foul jelly. I know what to do to make it smell less but I leave it in. After all, let his foulness sour the Sept of Baelor. In life, he looked golden. In death, he will smell so all would know his sins and foulness. It is a petty thing I do. But it is a woman’s prerogative. It is small defiance, a small victory for a lifetime of defeat. 

“A coat of red,  
A coat of gold,  
A lion still has claws”


End file.
